What Is Left of the Night
by blueinkedbones
Summary: "I just... get into trouble, sometimes." "And by 'trouble,'" Stiles says, his voice thick, "you mean 'kidnapped and tortured by sadistic anonymous freaks?" "Not usually," Derek says.


When Derek meets Stiles for the first time in his life, Stiles' mouth's swollen, bloody. The smell makes Derek dizzy, thinking of arms full of cold, cold...

"What'd you do?" Stiles says.

"What?" Derek says.

Stiles gestures at his face. "I got this for talking," he says. "You look a lot worse."

"Thanks," Derek says.

"I mean it," Stiles says. "You look like you went six rounds with a Mack truck. What'd you do?"

Derek reaches up, touches his face. His fingers come away bloody. "I don't know."

"Well where are you from?" Stiles asks. "I'm Stiles, by the way. So what do you figure?" he asks. "Some psycho's just going around town, rounding up teenagers? How old are you, by the way?"

"You got that for talking," Derek says, eyes catching on Stiles' bruised mouth. "You don't say."

"I do, actually," Stiles says. "That's kind of the point. I'm a talker. Plus, the dude who dumped me here? Didn't think to fill a prescription. Adderall," he tells Derek's raised eyebrows. "So, yeah. Can't beat me quiet."

"Too bad," Derek says. "Where am I?"

"Human trafficking convention?" Stiles suggests.

Of course. He's human.

"Doubt it," Derek says.

"Well let's hear your ideas, then," Stiles challenges. "I can't wait."

It's coming back in pieces; Derek was at the pool, thinking he'd maybe talk to Kate a little bit. But she was busy talking to some beefy idiot, so Derek was waiting, and then this omega werewolf grabbed him from behind.

So he took Derek because... because of some pack thing. As leverage, or a warning. But why'd he take a _human_?

Stiles smells bad, under the blood, like sweat and old adrenaline and tears. Pain, too.

Werewolves can't do this. Involve humans, that's—you play fair. Even omegas are supposed to know that.

He reaches out, brushes his fingers over Stiles' throat.

"Hey, what're you—" Stiles says, but his eyes close, and he breathes easier, suddenly. "Dude, are you m'gic?"

It's some werewolf that put them here, and Stiles is human. He doesn't have a clue what he's dealing with.

He's completely helpless, and he doesn't even know it.

"I'll protect you," Derek says. "Don't worry."

"Hey, you're trapped here, too," Stiles says. "Same as me. What are you gonna do?"

"I can fight," Derek says.

* * *

"I can fight too, you know," Stiles says, after a while. "Mental battles. Chess matches. It's not all about muscle."

"Sure," Derek agrees. "If I need anyone talked to death, you're my first call."

"You're a real comedian, you know that?" Stiles says.

"First line on my resume," Derek says, mostly swallowing a smirk.

* * *

"Your name," Stiles says, some time later. "Your name should be the first line on your resume. This is how you get these shitty placements, man. You're doing it to yourself. Crowd of one? That's just a bad night, any way you look at it. You can do better."

"Derek," Derek gives in. "Derek Hale. Not actually a comedian."

"Stiles Stilinski," Stiles returns. "Not actually such a pain in the ass. Sometimes."

"You're not," Derek says, feeling kind of shitty, suddenly. Stiles smells lonely, and sad. How long's he been here? Alone? "I was just being an asshole."

"We should get along great, then," Stiles says. He goes pink. "Or not. I'm also not a psychic."

"Lucky," Derek says. "I hate psychics."

"You don't hate me," Stiles says. He actually sounds pleased. Derek really feels like a shithead now. "The night's young, though."

"You don't actually have to shit on yourself all the time," Derek points out.

"Yeah, no, it's much wittier when you do it," Stiles agrees.

"I mean it," Derek says. He's angry, suddenly. "It's not funny. That he hit you for talking. He shouldn't have touched you."

"Right?" Stiles says. "Wait, why do you give a shit?"

"Because you're human," Derek says. "There are rules. You can't just hurt people."

"Tell that to your face," Stiles says.

Derek blinks.

"Yeah, that made more sense in my head," Stiles admits. "I mean, I'm really mostly fine. Lip's not even split all the way down. This is basically entirely cosmetic. You look like one of those bodies Caruso says a one-liner about."

"Looks like he's..." Derek makes a face. "I can't think of one."

"I guess you're... done joking," Stiles offers.

"Nice," Derek nods.

"Don't, that was weak as hell," Stiles says. "Please. We're both veteran comics. We can't let our standards slip this easy."

The doorknob rattles. Derek starts.

"What is it?" Stiles asks. "Are you dying? Oh, that's just typical. Just when I meet a guy who thinks I'm funny, he starts dying on me."

"Shut up," Derek hisses. "Someone's coming."

He inches in front of Stiles, tensing and tensing, getting ready to shift.

The door rocks open, hits the wall. The omega's eyes are wild.

"I should've just killed you," he snarls. "Did I tell you you could talk to him?"

"Even if you did, that beating probably gave him brain trauma," Stiles offers. "So who's fault is this, really?"

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek mutters. He glares at the omega, steps toward him. "What's wrong with you? He's human."

"You keep saying that," Stiles says. "You're human too, remember?"

"Do you wanna tell him, or should I?" the omega says quietly.

"Tell him what?" Derek says, just as quietly. "That my alpha's going to hunt you down and kill you?"

"Your alpha," the omega says, and grabs Derek by the throat, throws him into the wall.

"Hey, hey, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Stiles says, standing warningly.

"Don't you move," the omega snarls. "I'll fucking kill him. Don't test me."

He's lying.

"You won't kill me," Derek says, picking splinters from his hair. "Why won't you kill me?"

"Dude! Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Stiles says, still worryingly pale. "It's frankly amazing you're not splattered across that wall, right now." He gags a little, obviously thinking about it.

"This isn't a group conversation," the omega says. He stands over Derek, reaches down, and drags him up by the hair. Tears pop in Derek's eyes; he tries to walk so his scalp isn't screaming, but his vision is a blur.

"Stop it," Stiles says. His voice is thick with panic. "Stop it, get off him!"

"Just a minute, honey," the omega says, faux-sweet, and hauls Derek into an adjacent room.

* * *

It's too quiet; it's too quiet. Even screaming would be better than this.

Stiles can't breathe, not until Derek's dumped unceremoniously on the floor at his feet, the omega pushing past him, leaving them alone.

The lock clicks; Stiles' heartbeat slows, but only slightly. He rushes to Derek's side. He's quiet, eyes shining with pain, but Stiles can't see any new wounds.

"What'd that psycho do to you?" Stiles demands, reaching out and touching the old ones, light, careful. "What did he want?"

"I don't know," Derek says, and his eyes well; he's trying not to be, but he's scared. Stiles' gut twists.

"My alpha will find us," Derek swears, at the look on Stiles' face. "She's gonna make him sorry for hurting us."

"That's not the guy who hit me," Stiles says. "Your guy's really—built, like a wrestler. Mine's more wiry. And he barely touched me," Stiles says, almost angry about it. "Your guy could've killed you. Fucking lunatic."

"I can heal," Derek admits. "Usually."

"Don't be stupid," Stiles says, but he's looking at Derek in a whole different light. "This happens to you a lot?"

"No," Derek says. "I just... get into trouble, sometimes."

"And by 'trouble,'" Stiles says, his voice thick, "you mean 'kidnapped and tortured by sadistic anonymous freaks'?"

"Not usually," Derek says.

"That better be a joke," Stiles says, but he stays close to Derek, eyes on the door, on guard.

* * *

Stiles' psycho comes back a couple hours later, just as he's finally starting to relax a little bit. It's stupidly calming, feeling Derek's shoulder against his, hearing him breathe.

This is what crazy feels like, isn't it.

"If I go crazy," Stiles says, "will you still call me Superman?"

"What?" Derek says.

"Three Doors Down," he says. "Kryptonite. No? Ignore me."

"Oh, the song," Derek says. Stiles nods, ridiculously pleased for reasons he barely understands.

"If I'm alive and well," Derek says, and then he goes still; the door slams open again.

* * *

It's fine; it's actually fine. Just a little roughing up against the bathroom sink, nothing actually all that painful.

"Stay away from him," Stiles' psycho warns. "You're not buddies. You're nothing. Stay the hell away. Or I'll make you sorry."

"Go fuck yourself," Stiles offers, and gets an insane grin for his trouble before the guy says, "Wouldn't you just love that," and sucker-punches him in the gut, laughing.

"I'm fine," Stiles says when he's dumped back out with the general population of one. "It was nothing."

Derek reaches out, touches just the edges of his fingertips to the side of Stiles' neck. It's weird as hell, but suddenly, Stiles can't feel the punch anymore.

Time passes; in the infinite depths of space, galaxies are dying, and new galaxies are being born.

Derek doesn't move his hand.

* * *

"They're crazy," Stiles says, when he can speak again without shuddering. Derek's been howling for his alpha; Stiles screaming for his dad. Derek punching at the walls, and Stiles trying to join him, then swearing, tears in his eyes, sinking to the ground, holding his hand tight and trying not to sob. "What do they want? They must want something."

"Maybe it's me," Derek says gloomily. Pain slips up his veins; he barely feels it. "My fault. And taking you was an accident."

"Don't be stupid," Stiles says. "What did you ever do wrong."

* * *

"You're a killer," the omega snarls. "Everything you touch dies. I'm warning you."

"Leave him alone," Derek warns. "Or I'll—"

"You can't fight us," the omega says. "You'd only be hurting yourselves."

And he's not lying. He's not lying.

Maybe he just—does this. Takes people, and keeps them, until—

Derek doesn't know.

"I'm warning you," the omega says. "Stay away. My partner doesn't like werewolves touching his things."

* * *

"I can't," Derek says, when Stiles comes close to where he's been thrown back. "We can't talk. He'll hurt you."

"I don't care," Stiles says fiercely. "I'll lose my mind without you."

* * *

Derek wakes up to Stiles trembling, curled in a ball, teeth chattering with cold. His hoodie is gone.

Derek just has Dad's jacket, the last thing he has from him. The last thing he has that smells like family.

He makes a nest out of it, and his shirt, a shield between Stiles and the icy floor. Derek's not cold. Werewolves run hot, naturally. Stiles needs it more than him.

It's not enough; the cold hurts Stiles so bad he can't speak, can barely breathe. Derek pulls pain, pulls pain, pulls pain.

"Please," Stiles says, and buries his face in the warmth of Derek's arm, breath catching against Derek's skin. Derek wraps his arms all around him, tries to warm him up.

"I love you," Stiles mumbles, and Derek holds him closer, thinks: I'll do anything to keep you safe. Anything, anything.

* * *

"I warned you," the omega's partner says, and drags Stiles from Derek. Derek roars, shifts, runs at him, snarling. The omega peels him off near-effortlessly.

"You're not his," the partner breathes. He's breathing too close to Stiles; Derek should tear his throat out. "You're mine."

He drags Stiles away, only the omega keeping Derek from slashing his guts out.

* * *

The psycho throws Stiles into the bathroom ahead of him, shoves him against the toilet; Stiles' chin smacks on the porcelain. Pain rattles through his jaw, reverberates from bone to bone.

"I own you," the psycho says, his breath hot on Stiles' throat. "He can't touch you."

He leaves a line of dark hickeys on Stiles' neck, down his throat. His hands slide down—

Stiles lets out a sob, kicks out, catches the guy between the legs, and runs.

* * *

Derek snarls when his eyes catch on the hickeys. Stiles doesn't want to talk about it.

"I'll kill him," Derek decides. "When he comes back, I'll kill him. I'll make him sorry."

"He doesn't get," Stiles says, after a while. "He doesn't get to fucking own me. He doesn't get to decide that I can't—that he's the only one who..."

Derek's so angry, he's shaking.

"I never," Stiles mutters, "with anyone, before. Not even—a kiss, anything. And now..."

His eyes flicker over Derek's face.

"Did you—Have you ever—yeah," he assumes, nodding, before Derek can respond. "'Course you have, you're perfect."

"I didn't," Derek says. "Not—sex, not—I had someone, but she... died. And then I couldn't... It wasn't right to... and now I'm here."

"Sorry," Stiles breathes, pulling back. "I'm not trying to... I don't even like guys. There's this girl, this amazing—Lydia Martin. I've been in love with her practically my whole life."

"Too bad you didn't get stuck here with her, then," Derek says.

* * *

Stiles is freezing when Derek wakes up, breathing too slow. Derek's heart jackhammers in his throat. He takes Stiles in his arms, tries to warm him up, desperate, but it all feels too familiar, his arms full of cold, cold...

"Please," Derek says, choking, "Please, please, please."

He screams, again, screams for his alpha, for his _mom_. She'd know what to do, she'd save him.

It's because he turned away, Derek realizes. That's why Stiles is freezing like this. This is his fault, all over again.

He wonders if you can get blue eyes over letting someone freeze to death.

Doesn't matter, doesn't matter. He's a killer either way.

"I'm sorry," Derek breathes. He adds his undershirt to the nest, presses closer. "I'm sorry."

The human one comes back, a little later, the omega's partner. He's alone; the omega's nowhere. Derek can take him, for sure.

"Jesus Christ," the partner says. "I said cold, not fucking ice age frigid. Where's the fucking—" He turns around, goes back the way he came.

The room gets warmer, after a while.

"Sorry about that," the partner says, when he comes back. "Werewolves, am I right? Heightened senses my ass. We're not trying to _kill_ you. Preserve your fucking rotting corpses, c'mon."

"Just trying to hurt us," Derek guesses. "Hurt him."

"You would think that, wouldn't you," the partner says. "Listen, I'll bring some food by in a little bit. McDonalds okay?"

Derek's stomach growls; he ignores it. The guy laughs.

"Figures," he says. "Same old Derek."

* * *

The smell of fast food wakes Stiles up. He looks at Derek, raises his eyebrows.

"Nice boobs," he says.

"Nice almost freezing to death before I gave you my shirt," Derek retorts, near-catatonic with relief.

"Touche," Stiles says. "Hey! Food!"

He's ridiculously cheered by curly fries. Derek can't make sense of it.

"They went to two places," he says. "Why?"

There's a couple of egg rolls in the bottom of the bag, too.

Derek defiantly doesn't eat them.

* * *

"They know us," Derek says. "They picked us."

Stiles is licking his fingers, fishing for french fry crumbs. He must be eating pure salt, at this point.

Derek should be a lot more disgusted than he is.

"No duh," Stiles says. "My guy thinks he owns me. That's not exactly the attachment of a whim-of-the-moment kidnapping."

"It's more than that," Derek says. "Mine knows things about me. Secrets."

"Oooh," Stiles says. He waggles his eyebrows. "Dirty little secrets?"

"Shut up," Derek says.

* * *

"My dad's a sheriff," Stiles says. "He's gonna find us. Any day now."

"My mom's—" Derek stops, unsure how to explain. "My mom can track down anything."

"Yeah?" Stiles says. "She's a, a bounty hunter or something?"

"Better," Derek swears.

* * *

No one comes.

* * *

"We're getting out of here," Stiles decides. "They can't just keep us here forever."

Unless they can, Derek thinks. He can't believe Mom hasn't found them yet. Unless she's not looking. Unless she's relieved, actually, that Derek's not her problem anymore.

Maybe Derek's an omega, too, now.

Blue-eyed omega, which means fair game. Anyone can hunt him, it's fine. No one cares.

Blue-eyed anything, you're in trouble, but if you have a pack, then at least…

"We will," Stiles says, a hand on Derek's shoulder. Derek can't meet his eyes. "Hey. Derek. Listen to me. We _will_."

Derek nods, a little numbly.

"We're gonna get out," Stiles says. "But first, we're gonna kill those sons of bitches."

* * *

Maybe all of this is Derek's fault. The omega knows him, they both do. How he's a killer, how… "Same old Derek," whatever that means. Even egg rolls, they didn't guess his favorite food by accident.

And Stiles, he's just here because… because the partner's a creep. And this whole place is already set up to hold Derek, why not take advantage? Steal some random attractive teenager, and no one will ever know.

And Stiles thinks Derek is just as innocent, and doesn't deserve this, he thinks they're in this together. He doesn't realize that if not for Derek, none of this would be happening to him at all.

* * *

"You wanna tell him, or should I?" the omega threatens. "What you did. Why you're here."

"Let him go," Derek says. "He didn't do anything. I'm the one—

"You're not calling the shots here," the omega says. "You don't tell me what to do. I can tear you apart."

"So do it," Derek says, sick of this. "Do it already."

"And leave your little friend all alone?" the omega says, sickeningly soft. "What do you think my partner will do to him then?"

Derek goes cold.

* * *

"We have to have a plan," he tells Stiles. "Next time they come. We have to be ready."

"What'd he do to you?" Stiles says. "You don't look hurt. Unless—" His eyes narrow to slits. "Tell me he didn't touch you."

"He didn't," Derek says, but Stiles looks unconvinced. "He didn't," Derek says again. "Just threatened me. It doesn't matter. I'm not scared."

"I would cut him into little pieces," Stiles says. "If he even tried. I'd, I'd chew through his spine, so he'd be paralyzed. Then I'd make him watch me eat him."

"He's a werewolf," Derek bursts out. "He's supernaturally strong, and fast. He could kill you without even meaning to."

"And I'm Batman," Stiles says, nonplussed. "I can shoot him with my car."

"I mean it," Derek says. "I'm not being funny. Werewolves are real."

"Oh, man," Stiles says. "This place is really starting to get to you, huh."

"I'm a werewolf too," Derek says desperately. "Here, just—"

He focuses, shifts. His forehead grows a hard ridge, his fangs come down. Claws slide up over his fingernails.

"Cool trick," Stiles says, a little breathlessly. "That's—fuck, that is super weird. How does it work?"

He starts to reach out, shakes his head.

"I mean, where does it all come from?" he asks. "Is it under your skin, all the time? Just waiting to drop," he suggests, and starts laughing. "Get it?"

"I don't know," Derek says. "It just happens. I don't know how."

"Like balls, I mean," Stiles says, gesturing unnecessarily. "Balls dropping."

Derek rolls his eyes.

"Does it hurt?" Stiles asks. "When it comes out. Is it like Wolverine's claws, slicing through his—" He lets out a sympathetic hiss.

"I'm used to it," Derek says. "I don't notice anymore."

"So weird," Stiles murmurs. "But cool," he adds, looking at Derek's face again. His fingers twitch.

"You can touch it, if you want," Derek offers generously.

"That's what he said," Stiles says. His eyes widen. "Wait, really?"

"No, I'm fucking with you," Derek says flatly. "Yes, really."

"Okay, whoa," Stiles says, holding his hands up in surrender. "You're a little hard to read, sometimes."

His touch is light, barely ghosting over Derek's skin. Derek shivers.

"Is this weird?" Stiles asks, pulling back. "Tell me if I'm being weird."

"You're not," Derek says. Without the contact, he's freezing. "It... feels nice."

"Oh," Stiles says. "Good."

"You can do it again," Derek says. "If you want. Or you could just—"

"Kiss you?" Stiles suggests.

Derek's breath catches in his throat.

"Yeah," he says. He nods, nods, nods again, like an idiot. "Yeah, if you w—"

Stiles tips his head slightly, leans in.

* * *

"Supernaturally strong," Stiles says. They're in their nest, Stiles' head on Derek's chest, a hand running over the edge of Derek's jaw. His other hand is hooked in Derek's, loose but secure. Derek's never felt so warm. "How strong's that, exactly?"

"I can't punch through these walls," Derek admits. "But I can snap your guy's neck. Easy."

"My guy," Stiles says, making a face. "'I own you.' What the fuck is _that_. He's not my anything."

"What do you want me to call him," Derek says.

"You can kill him?" Stiles asks.

"Instantly," Derek says. "He won't feel a thing."

"Dead Man Walking, then," Stiles decides. "What about yours? I wanna destroy yours."

"We'll do it together," Derek says. "Once Dead Man Walking is dead. We'll make him sorry."

"Yeah we will," Stiles swears.

* * *

It's almost too easy; Stiles distracts Dead Man with some stupid jokes the next time he drops off their dinner, and Derek appears behind him, and—crack.

"He's really dead?" Stiles asks. He's been ruined by horror movies. Nothing just dies, in his experience.

"He's dead," Derek swears. "Dead Man No Longer Walking."

"He's one sixteenth Navajo," Stiles jokes. He can't quite feel his fingers. He looks at Dead Man; he's just on the floor, not moving. He doesn't even look surprised. "One down," he says, a little faintly.

"It's okay," Derek says, and takes his hand. "It's exactly like we said. We'll make them sorry."

"Yeah," Stiles says, getting a hold of himself. "Serves them exactly right."

* * *

But they're not ready when the omega comes back, finds his partner on the ground. He sinks to his side, hands on his wrist, his throat, muttering, "No. No no no no no no. Please, please."

He's terrified; Derek never could've imagined such a maniac caring that much about anyone, much less some pervert. But maybe that's life as an omega; you get desperate.

"What the hell did you do?" the omega snarls, when he can't fight the facts anymore. "You killed him."

Behind the tears, his eyes are blue. A killer. Derek's shoulders tense just anticipating the fight.

"Serves him right," Stiles says. "No one owns me but me."

"He _is_ you, you idiot," the omega snaps.

* * *

"Why do you think he—He did all of this for us. For you," the omega spits.

He's glaring right at Derek.

"Do you know what happens to us if he doesn't find you now?" the omega demands. "If you didn't meet Stiles, and just went around making your own terrible fucking decisions?"

"You can shut the fuck up," Stiles says. "You're the psycho holding us here. You got your sicko friend killed. Derek's a fucking genius compared to you."

" _Kate Argent_ ," the omega says. Derek stares at him. "Beautiful, right? And just crazy enough to like you. And you'd have fucking _believed_ her," he spits. "You would have followed her anywhere, invited her home and let her…" The omega's eyes flare blue. "She's a _hunter_ ," the omega says. "And you knew that. Of course you knew that. And you trusted her anyway. To keep some bullshit code no real hunter actually keeps." Tears spill down his face. "You traded your family for a pathetic little fuck with a girl who didn't even stick around to laugh at you." The omega scoffs out a breath. It catches, somewhere deep. Sounds almost familiar. "You lost everyone but Laura," he says, "and Peter, and then you lost them too."

"What the actual fuck are you ranting about?" Stiles says, unimpressed, but too many things are fitting together, all at once.

"You're me," Derek says. "From... from the future." The omega doesn't even blink. "And your partner," Derek says, fear filling him like noxious gas. "He was…"

"That's right," the omega says. He thumbs his eyes dry just in time for another tear to fall. "He was the best thing that ever happened to you. To either of us. And you just killed him."

* * *

"He's you," Stiles says slowly. "But he _hurt_ you."

"I knew I could take it," the omega—the other Derek—says. "It was worth it. It was the only way to be sure."

"Sure of what," Stiles says. His eyes catch on the body. The other Stiles' body. Derek feels sick. "None of this makes any—He tried to _rape_ me."

"He said he'd be okay," the omega says. "If he had me. You," he tells Derek. "That it would be worth it. And he'd understand, eventually."

"This is insane," Stiles says, scrubbing at his eyes, his jaw. "This is literally insanity."

"You'd do that?" Derek says, looking at Stiles wonderingly. Even through the sudden hollow feeling, he can't just ignore that. "Let that happen. Just to save my family."

"For _you_ , maybe," Stiles says. "Not this fucking—" He covers his face with an arm. "My head hurts."

"Lemme," Derek says, already pulling pain.

He's still holding Stiles' hand.

* * *

"We had it all planned," the other Derek says. Not Derek. Not!Derek. Exclamation point. "We'd only scare ourselves. And only as much as we could handle. As much as we needed."

"To what," Stiles says. He feels like he knows, already, but he can't, because that answer is too batshit crazy to survive any brush with reality.

"To bring us together," not!Derek says. "To make us trust each other. Defend each other. It happened anyway," he says. "But it took years. And my family burned first. We thought we could fix it. Make things right."

"You did," Derek says. He's trembling. "I won't touch Kate Argent. I won't trust her. But you could've just told me."

Not!Derek scoffs. "I'm you, remember? I know exactly how you think. If I just appeared in your life, some stranger, warning you about someone you thought you cared about?" He's never looked so disgusted. "You'd fuck her just to spite me. You'd fucking _marry_ her."

Derek actually looks guilty. Like he believes it, like he's fucking _ashamed_ of something he hasn't even done yet.

"This was the only way," not!Derek says. "The only way to stop you destroying everything. The only way to save our pack. And all the people who died because we weren't good enough. Playing alpha," he spits. "You don't know shit about being an alpha. Everything you touch turns to shit. Stiles is the only thing that you ever managed not to…" but his eyes find the body again, and go dark. "Until now."

"So that's me," Stiles says, impossibly calm. "I'm dead."

"I'm sorry," not!Derek says, finally looking at him. His eyes fill again. "I should have stayed with him. Made sure he was—I knew what I'm capable of."

"I'm gonna throw up," Stiles says, to no one in particular, but he doesn't, somehow. "This fixes it?" he demands. "Derek's family. They're safe?"

"You still," Derek breathes.

"Yeah, I still," Stiles says. "How old was he?" he asks. "Me. How long do I have?"

"He'll be forty-one in—"

"March," Stiles and not!Derek say together. It's easily the weirdest thing that's happened in the last ten seconds. "Shit, that's—" Stiles says, and pushes past the surprisingly brief panic. "Okay. Okay. Twenty-five years, okay. Twenty-five. Twenty-five to life."

"Stiles," Derek says worriedly.

"No, I'm—This is cool," Stiles says. "Totally cool. Hey, everyone dies sometime, right? At least I get to appreciate what I've got."

"You're serious," Derek says, eyes wide. His fingers are slick with sweat.

"Yeah, why not?" Stiles says. "And hey, at least my death means something. I saved a whole bunch of people from an awful fiery death, right?" He turns to not!Derek. "How many."

"Five," Derek says, just as not!Derek says, "Eleven." Derek gapes at him, horrified.

"Both our grandparents were there," not!Derek says. "Our new cousins. Twins."

"And they all—" Derek says. He's trembling again.

"They were human," not!Derek says. "Mom died trying to shield them. And then they burned anyway."

"You can't know that," Stiles says. He squeezes Derek's hand in his, edges closer.

"Her claws survived the fire," not!Derek says. "I stabbed myself. Got her memories."

"That's—" Stiles looks from Derek to not!Derek, and back. "My life is officially a fever dream."

"I would've done anything to undo my mistakes," not!Derek says. "Sacrificed anything. Anything, except."

"Me," Stiles says.

"I'm sorry," Derek says. His hand slips from Stiles'; He stares down at them, looks so distraught Stiles can't actually stand it.

"You didn't know, dumb-ass," he says, trying for levity. Derek chokes on a sob.

So. No levity, then.

"You didn't know," Stiles says, softer. Derek's shoulders shake under his hands, and then Derek's shuddering against him, and Stiles can't hold him close enough. "Older me was a fucking creep," he tries to remind Derek, his hands soothing up and down his side. "You were trying to protect me. I would've killed older you, if I could. What he did to you—I wanted to tear his face off. Chew through his spine. Anything to make him sorry."

"We can undo it," Derek says, raising his head from Stiles' shoulder to look at not!Derek. "Change it again. Right? And you can w-warn me—"

"Sure," not!Derek says bitterly. "If we just wait 138 years until the planets align into exactly the right positions as determined by—" He shakes his head. "I don't know," he says, defeated. "It was Stiles' plan. He was a genius."

"Still in the room," Stiles reminds him. " _Is._ Is a genius. Is still in the room."

"So you can figure it out," not!Derek says. "I'll get anything you need. Do anything."

Stiles looks at him. At Derek, still trembling, eyes so horribly hopeful.

"No," Stiles says.

"No," not!Derek says, his jaw tensing. "Why not."

"You didn't go through all this trouble just for me to make none of this have ever happened," Stiles says. "I'm not gonna be the reason all those people die. No way."

"But you'll let me be the reason you die," not!Derek says. "That, you're fine with."

"Yeah, I am," Stiles says. "He was a fucking weirdo, okay, I'm not sorry. I just wish I could've killed him myself so you two couldn't get all self-loathing circle-jerk about it."

"It would still be our fault," Derek says. "My fault. For not protecting you."

"See?" Stiles says, throwing up his hands. Derek stumbles; Stiles catches him by the shoulders, urges him close again. "I can't win with you two. You're determined to hate yourself. And I am starting to really become surprisingly adept at handling what should be an incredibly challenging grammatical exercise, by the way. If no one else is gonna point that out."

"You split an infinitive," Derek says, after a moment.

"Ugh, made for me," Stiles says, hand to his heart, or where his heart would be, if Derek wasn't in the way. "Alrighty, then. I think this slumber party's over, right? My dad's probably had about seven heart attacks since I've been gone."

"He's fine," not!Derek says. "We explained it all to him. And Mom," he adds.

"Mom," Derek says, barely a whisper. "She knows what I—what we did?"

"What you _didn't_ ," Stiles says pointedly. "I think that's kind of the mission statement, you know? Everyone's alive! L'chaim! Get happy," he implores. "I mean it. I'm not taking you back home looking so miserable, my dad'll think i'm holding you against your will. He might think that anyway, actually," Stiles realizes. "My love life thus far? Pretty freaking fictional."

"Lydia Martin," Derek says, somehow still a little salty about it.

" _Does_ not know I exist," Stiles says. "And that's actually totally fine," he says soothingly, when Derek tenses, as if Stiles is about to track her down and ask her out, after all this. "Like, all kinds of fine. I'm feeling great, actually. You know what I am, right now? I'm a goddamn hero. I died _saving lives_. Who gets to say that? Nobody," Stiles says, maybe crowing a little bit. "Literally nobody gets to say that, because once they're dead, they more or less stop talking. Not me, though." He's high on the weirdest near-death adrenaline. Like, literally, in close proximity to his own death, adrenaline. It's a mindfuck. "Can't keep Stiles down," he says, grinning.

"You're impossible," Derek says, pulling back to look at him.

"Best thing I've ever been called," Stiles says cheerfully. "So hey, when do I meet your family? I have never been less nervous about impressing the in-laws."

* * *

Things don't get less weird with time, but Derek does get less freaked out, which is a relief. It's not that Stiles doesn't love the guy, but he's starting to fondly remember a time when he didn't have a guard escorting him to and from the bathroom.

He's almost past the screaming nightmares stage of it all, with only little hiccups and backsteps here and there, when it comes up. That day.

"Maybe I should go," Derek frets. "He's the reason, he's—I would've—"

"You would've made it through," Stiles says. "And we would've met, eventually. Undid all of it. It's all an eventuality."

"You should come too," Derek says. "Just to hear—He wasn't a creep. He was just trying to—"

"I'm not Tom Sawyer-ing my own memorial," Stiles says. "No thanks. And you shouldn't go either. It's not your shit."

"It will be," Derek says.

"Jeez, aren't you a ray of sunshine," Stiles says. "That how it's gonna be? Twenty-five years of tick-tocking? 'Cause I am not up for that, let me tell you."

"I don't want to lose you," Derek says seriously.

"That's the honeymoon effect talking," Stiles assures him. "It'll fade, I swear."

"It didn't for him," Derek says. "Other me. Now he's all alone."

"He can come by," Stiles says. "I'm an equal-opportunity Derek lover. Not literally," he adds, just in case that isn't crystal clear. "Not literally. I still think both of them were hella creepy. Not attractive at all."

Derek stares at him. "You're _lying_." He looks kind of nauseous.

"Fine, sure," Stiles flounders. "Maybe older you is a little attractive. I mean, it's you. Older. Don't make me defend this," he warns. "I do not come off looking good."

"He wouldn't do anything, anyway," Derek says, clearly torn between jealousy and flattery. Or maybe just hungry. Stiles can't smell emotions, okay, he's guessing. "Like that. He wouldn't see you that way."

"Why not?" Stiles says, trying not to bristle, despite himself.

"Because I wouldn't," Derek says. "If I lost you? I wouldn't wanna replace you. Not with anything."

"Be still my beating heart," Stiles says, a little breathless.

"Shut up," Derek says, but fondly.

* * *

 _And you can hear the siren's song_  
 _You can hear the siren's song_  
 _But it's not where you belong_  
 _Sail on_

— _Watchman, What Is Left Of The Night?_ by Greycoats


End file.
